


Kentucky Avenue

by CanadianGarrison



Series: The Long Way Home [5]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bike Riding, But Read it anyways really it's okay trust me, M/M, Panic Attack, Recreational Drug Use, Songfic, This one got a bit sad but i think it's more wistful than anything else, Tom Waits, sharing memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:44:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/pseuds/CanadianGarrison
Summary: Porthos gives d'Artagnan a bike, and the four of them go out for a spin. Later, at home, Athos, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan talk about their first bikes and what that meant to each of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my series "The Long Way Home", you don't *have* to read them in order but it would probably help.
> 
> Each story comes with an associated Tom Waits song. That's right bitches, songfic! I know, I don't always listen to the songs when other people post songfic, but please, please listen to the song I link when you read each story? I love Tom Waits and want to share him with you, and I think hearing the song will add to the experience.
> 
> The song for this story is "Kentucky Avenue," which you can [listen to here](https://youtu.be/GvZK8Wl7RQ8). I would love to hear what you think about the song, Tom is my favourite musician.
> 
> Many thanks to my #smuttyladies and azile_teacup for audiencing and editing. All mistakes are my own, and sadly I do not own the characters.

Porthos found d'Artagnan in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher. 

“You busy?” Porthos asked. 

“You're looking at it,” d'Artagnan answered, stacking plates in the cupboard. “Working five to eleven tonight, but I've got a couple hours free till then. What's up?”

“Come outside and see.” 

Porthos led the way out the back door into the brittle fall sunlight, across the porch, and down the three steps to the yard, where he had a tarp laid out. Various tools were scattered on the blue plastic, surrounding what he'd brought d'Artagnan outside to see. 

“Nice bike,” d'Artagnan said. “I didn't know you needed a new one, what happened to yours?”

“It's fine, don't worry. This bike’s for you.” 

D'Artagnan just stared at the bike, the silence drawing out for long enough that Porthos started to get uncomfortable. Maybe he’d had a bad experience, a crash. What if his father died in a bike accident? Porthos hadn't asked for specifics and was suddenly regretting it. Then d'Artagnan surged forward, wrapping his long arms around Porthos's chest and burying his face against Porthos's neck. Porthos smiled to himself, content to hug now and ask questions later. 

When d'Artagnan pulled away, his eyes were damp but his smile was wide and true. 

“I've been a cyclist my whole life. As soon as I could walk, Dad got me a bike and started teaching me to ride it. I didn't…” he shifted on his feet, ran a hand through his hair. “When I came here I didn't think about it, leaving my bike behind, but I've missed it so much, Porthos. I can't even tell you what this means to me.”

Porthos ducked his head, feeling his cheeks heat up as he blushed at d'Artagnan's gratitude. 

“Glad you like it. It's nothing fancy, but I was fixing it up for fun and thought maybe you'd want it.”

“My first kiss was because of a bike. I mean, kind of. Hilda Perella cut her foot on some broken glass and I rode her home on my handlebars, and…” D’Artagnan trailed off in the memory, his smile turning wistful. “Dad and I used to go for bike rides together every Sunday afternoon, after my mum died.”

“Aw, c’mere,” Porthos said. He pulled  d'Artagnan into another hug, ruffling his hair and stroking gently over his back. “It won't be the same, but… think about starting that tradition again? With us?”

“I will,” d'Artagnan answered. “Can I try it out now, even though today's Wednesday?”

Porthos chuckled. “Yup. It's already got lights and a bell, and there's a helmet and bike lock for you inside by the front door. Be careful, cars can be aggressive and they don't always respect cyclists, even if you're in a bike lane.” 

“I'll be fine.”

* * *

Sunday was cool and clear, and mid-afternoon found the four of them gearing up for a ride. Aramis and Porthos both had road bikes and rode them often, though Athos was less experienced – Athos was usually fairly stoned and knew he wasn't safe to bike amongst cars, so he just didn't. Today was special, though, so he dusted off his helmet and big blue cruiser, ready to join the group.

They rode up side streets and down alleys, showing d'Artagnan the neighbourhood from a different vantage point. One street had wide, tree-lined sidewalks and old-fashioned wrought-iron lamps (properly electric, not gas). There were parks all over, people playing with their dogs and children, students sitting on wooden benches reading thick textbooks and smoking endless cigarettes. 

At d'Artagnan's suggestion they stopped for ice cream cones; his argument was that it would soon be too cold to enjoy ice cream, though Porthos disagreed vehemently – winter was a great time for outdoor ice cream eating, it didn't melt. 

They were headed back to the house, riding single-file with d'Artagnan in the lead, when a car passed them driving much too fast, swerving towards d'Artagnan before correcting course and speeding away. D'Artagnan felt the car more than he saw it, heard the noisy engine and squeal of tires. Luckily it was just far enough away that he wasn't hit, but the startle left him wobbly and off-balance, and he tipped off his bike onto the sidewalk in a sprawl of long limbs and bike wheels. 

“Hey!” Porthos shouted at the car's tail lights. “Are you okay?” he asked d'Artagnan, crouching down next to him, bike abandoned on the sidewalk. “Are you hurt?” 

“Fine, I'm fine.” D'Artagnan panted, sitting up and patting himself down to confirm he really was all right. “He didn't hit me, just – just scared me.”  

“Me too,” Porthos reassured him. “For a minute I thought – it doesn't matter.” 

D'Artagnan looked up into Porthos's face, seeing worry and relief in his eyes. “I'm fine,” he said again. “Hey, where are –” he looked past Porthos for Athos and Aramis, who had been right behind them. They were a few yards down the street, Aramis crouching next to Athos in a perfect mirror of Porthos's pose beside d'Artagnan. “Is Athos all right?” 

Porthos followed d'Artagnan's gaze, then turned back. “Let's go find out.” He helped d'Artagnan stand up, collect his bike and walk the short distance over to Aramis and Athos. As they approached, Aramis glanced at Porthos and then turned back to Athos; he was close but not touching Athos, talking in a low voice. 

“You're here with me, Athos. Just breathe, in and out.” 

Athos’s chest was heaving, his breathing fast and hard. His eyes were open but unfocused, and he was sweaty, more than he should be from their bike ride. 

“What's going on?” d'Artagnan asked Porthos in a low voice. 

“Panic attack,” Porthos explained. “Doesn't happen often anymore, but… we know how to help him through it.”

Aramis was still murmuring to Athos, breathing with him. After a few more minutes, Athos uncurled his hands from where he was gripping his knees, and leaned back a little. 

“That's right, you're doing great.” Aramis's voice was soothing, reassuring. “Can you look around a bit? We're on Barton street, see? D'Artagnan's fine, he's right here with us.” 

Athos did as Aramis suggested, looking around like he was coming out of a dream. When he saw d'Artagnan standing next to Porthos, Athos seemed to relax a bit, tension dropping from his shoulders as his breathing calmed even more. 

“Let's go home,” Porthos said. “You okay to walk a couple blocks?” 

“Give him a bit longer,” Aramis answered for Athos. “He’ll be all right soon.” 

* * *

Porthos kept d'Artagnan calm while Aramis tended to Athos, and then got them all home without any further mishaps. The sky had turned grey and a cold wind was blowing; it made the winter ahead feel more like a threat than a promise.

He got Athos settled the couch, leaving him in charge of rolling a smoke while Porthos put on the kettle for a pot of tea. Athos did it so often, the motions had become second-nature and would help him come down from the panic attack’s after-effects, though not as much as actually smoking it would do. Aramis pulled out some chips and guacamole to tide them over to dinner time, but d'Artagnan sat himself down next to Athos and silently managed to convey that he’d remain there until Athos had moved. The fire in d'Artagnan's eyes suggested that he expected a fight, but much to Porthos’s surprised delight, Athos seemed content to remain in his spot, d'Artagnan close up against Athos's side, quiet but present. 

When the tea had been poured and the joint was lit, Aramis turned to d'Artagnan. 

“So, Porthos said your dad taught you to ride?” It was a tribute to how concerned  they all were about Athos that no one called out “ _ phrasing!”  _ D'Artagnan hadn't watched Archer before moving into Wonderland, but they'd been through nearly four seasons of the show so far, part of what Aramis called his “continuing education plan.”

“Yep,” d'Artagnan answered. “I can't remember it well, I was so little, but he loved riding his bike through the countryside and used to take me with him, every Sunday. Maman died when I was just a few years old, and he was always so busy with the farm, but Sundays were our time together.” He drifted off, a faraway expression echoed in the others. 

“My father would never have taught me,” Athos said into the contemplative quiet. He took a drag on the joint and handed it to d'Artagnan, ignoring the glance Porthos shared with Aramis – Athos was voluntarily talking about his parents? “He was always down in the city, working at the Family Business.” They could hear the capital letters, and Porthos's heart broke all over again for the child Athos had been. “Thomas and I asked for bicycles for Christmas one year, he was eight and I was ten. We didn't really think we’d get them, but then… I think Maman did it, got them and didn't tell him. He wasn't there when we opened our presents anyways.” 

As Athos fell silent again, Porthos took the joint from d'Artagnan, inhaled, and held the smoke in his lungs for a moment as he considered what to say. Aramis ate some chips, loud and crunchy.

“So how’d you learn to ride?” Aramis asked, surprisingly softly. 

“We fell down a lot,” Athos answered. “But it was worth it. Thomas tore his pants up and we got in trouble, Maman seemed more upset about his clothes than the bloody scabs on his knees, but. Well. We learned. And… it was our first taste of freedom.”

This time Athos's silence continued, and Porthos picked up the theme when he sensed Athos was truly finished speaking, at least for now. 

“The family that fostered me the longest, the Blacks –” Porthos shook his head at d’Artagnan’s quizzical look, “– nah, they were Jewish, just named Black. Anyways, they had a bunch of kids and a bunch of bikes, didn't mind who used them as long as they were put away when we came home. 

“I used to love riding around with Bamie. He was the second youngest. His baby sister, Shira, she was five, used a wheelchair sometimes, wore leg braces. She had cerebral palsy.” The others nodded, following the story; d'Artagnan stubbed out the finished joint while Athos rolled another. Aramis knew immediately where Porthos was going, he'd heard this one before, but he was looking at Porthos, his face full of love and support. 

“Shira wanted to ride with us so bad, had it in her head that she could ride a bike just fine, it was just the braces on her legs kept her back. So one day Bamie and I biked over to his friend's house and stole a hacksaw, snuck it up to her room and started trying to cut them off her. Not sure why we didn't take them off first and then hide them or something, but you know, we were kids.” 

“So what happened?” d’Artagnan prompted Porthos when he didn't continue. 

“Oh, Harry caught us. The oldest brother. Told his parents, we ended up grounded and had to apologize to the Millers for borrowing their saw. I learned a lot about orthotics, too.” 

“Are you still in touch with them?” d'Artagnan asked. 

“Sure am,” Porthos answered. “They moved to Israel a few years later, but we email at the holidays. They were my first foster family, you know. Kept me the longest.”

“Thanks for telling us,” d'Artagnan said. He sounded quiet, still, but less upset than before. “What about you, Aramis? When did you learn to ride a bike?”

Aramis didn't answer at first, but just as Porthos was about to jump in and say that he didn't have to, Aramis took a deep breath and shook his head a little. 

“My father wasn't like Athos's, but… he might've been. If he'd been more in control, had more power at work. Instead… instead he took it out on us. My mother and me. He was in charge, and we had to fall in line, at least until he sent me to school and let the nuns take over.

“Anyways, I wanted a bike, but he wouldn't get me one, wouldn't spend the money, not until I realized I could ride it to school and my job at the gas station. I convinced him it'd save him money, so he got me a beat up secondhand bike from a junk shop somewhere. I hated it, it was purple and sparkly, and I was nowhere near as fabulous as I am now, but… yeah, it's like Athos said. The bike was freedom.”

Porthos knew the story, like Aramis had known his, but he hadn't heard Aramis tell anyone else about his childhood. It was so good to see him sharing, getting to know d'Artagnan, building up his connection with Athos. The second joint was being passed around, and Porthos refilled all their tea cups as Aramis resumed speaking. 

“Isabelle,” he paused for Athos's surprised hum, the first sound he'd made in a while, and then continued. “Yeah, that Isabelle. I knew her even back then, and she'd had a bike for a couple years already. She's the one who taught me how to ride it, and also where – or where not to. You know, things like don't go on Mrs Storm’s property, she'll stab you with that steak knife she keeps hidden in her handbag. Or how we could jump off Bobby’s shed’s roof into the pond, cold water that was so deep you’d never hit the bottom.”

“What happened to her? Are you still in touch too?” d’Artagnan was always full of questions, it showed he was getting more comfortable with all of them and that was a good thing, but Porthos wished he hadn't asked that one. 

“No,” Aramis said, shaking his head. “And that's a story for another time.”

“Sorry,” d'Artagnan apologized immediately. 

“It's okay, I don't mind. It's like I told you when you first moved in – ask me whatever, and trust me to know my limits.”

D'Artagnan nodded his agreement, and Athos ground the end of the joint into the ash tray. 

“All right,” Athos said. “I'm going to lie down for a bit. Wake me for dinner?” Porthos nodded immediately, glad that Athos would let him feed him. 

“Want company?” Aramis offered. 

“No, but … thank you.” He looked around the circle, meeting Porthos's eyes, then Aramis, then d'Artagnan. “For everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't that such a great song? I love that one, it gives me so many feelings. 
> 
> Some but not all of these stories will be smutty. I’m open to suggestions, if there are things you’d particularly love to see happen, just leave a comment or message me on Tumblr.


End file.
